Life Without Parole: A Kate Conway Mystery by Clare O'Donohue

told me I was right.
    “Why are you doing this, anyway?” I asked. “If you want to open a restaurant, you don’t need a TV show to film it. We’ll just exploit you. You do know that?”
    “It was Ilena’s idea. She talked with someone at the Business Channel, some friend of a friend, and they worked out a deal. She thought it would make the restaurant look really important, bring it tons of publicity and get things off to a good start. I didn’t really want to be on TV, but once I knew it was going to happen, I insisted on you.”
    “And, of course, Doug went along, since he’s so…agreeable.”
    She smiled. “I knew he would. And the others thought it might be helpful to have a friend doing the story.”
    “Why do they need a friend? It’s just another high-end restaurant opening. It’s a formula. First act, excited investors with big plans, putting everything on the line—their houses, their marriages, everything. But it’s okay because they have confidence in their dream. Second act, problems start.”
    “Like?”
    “Like the pastry chef quits, or the bathroom tile that had been special-ordered from Italy doesn’t show up on time.”
    “Minor stuff.”
    “Yeah, but we play it up big, like it’s going to ruin them. That gets us all the way through act three, with things getting worse and worse. Usually we get footage of the owners fighting, one of them walking out, looking as if he’s on the verge of collapse.”
    “But you just said it’s minor stuff. Why would he be on the verge of collapse?”
    “We stage it,” I said, wondering if anyone could be that naive. “Then after the last commercial break, when it looks as if the whole venture’s about to collapse, everything works out. The restaurant opens. There are lots of satisfied customers, great food, tired but happy investors. And then we put a slate at the end to say whether the place is still in business. Any half-assed, doesn’t-give-a-damn producer could do that show in his sleep. So I ask again, why do you and your investors need a friend?”
    Vera bit the inside of her cheek as if to keep herself from saying something. When she did speak, it was careful and slow. “I’m worried we’ll come off looking like a bunch of rich brats trying to keep nice people from our exclusive place.”
    “You will.” Before she could protest, I went on. “And there’s nothing I can do about that. But keep your people from saying the ridiculous things Ilena and Erik were saying this afternoon and you’ll be fine.”
    “They don’t have to make it into the final piece, do they?”
    Though I still had half a glass of wine, Vera topped me off.
    “Vera,” I said, “I’m a hired hand. I don’t have the final say in what gets on TV and what doesn’t. I’m not the only one who sees the raw footage, so I’m not the only one who’s going to know what happened. If you, or one of those snotty investor friends, say something stupid on tape, I can’t protect you. Assuming I even want to.” I got up to bring my plate to the sink, and as I did, I felt the effects of the wine. “I should probably get going.”
    “But—”
    “Look, you’ve made your pitch about the show, and…” I sighed. “I’ll do what I can, if you tell them to cut down on the elitist crap.”
    “No,” she said. “You should do your job. It’s not fair of me to ask you not to, and maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Ilena and Erik and the others had to see themselves on television acting like that.”
    “At least you’ll know to say all the right things.”
    I grabbed my purse and took a step out of the kitchen, but Vera didn’t follow. She just sat in her chair, moving bread crumbs around the table and generally avoiding my eyes.
    “Vera, is there something else?”
    She didn’t say anything.
    “If you didn’t want to talk to me about protecting your friends,” I said, “then why am I here?”
    She tapped her fingers across the bread crumbs